Tired Eyes
by bayumlikedayum
Summary: If she was an angel, then he was the devil. Snafu/OC.
1. The Angel and The Devil

**Chapter One – The Angel and The Devil**

The train skipped forth merrily on the uneven tracks, jostling her hand unmercifully, unrepentantly.

He could see the shaking present in her penmanship, what little he could see of it, but she showed no obvious sign of irritation, patiently jotting down notes, her elbows drawn in tightly around her as though she wanted to remain inside of herself and not be part of her surroundings, as though she had been taught to control herself. Her hair was a light brown, her eyes wide and hazel, her nose small, her lips full, her cream blouse and tan tweed skirt conservative and controlled. The only noticeable thing about her that contrasted her damningly aristocratic features were her scarlet red lipstick and the way those lips parted when she exhaled a sigh. There was something about those lips – something that told him there was more to her than just that conservative blouse and that hideous tweed skirt. He felt a hot shudder run through his body as he unconsciously wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips, to feel them melt under his, to make her moan –

Her eyes glanced up, going directly to him, as though she could hear his thoughts, as though she were going to confront him about it, but he didn't look away and her perfect composure was lost as her cheeks burned with fire and his lips lifted in an impish smirk. It was a pretty red that colored her cheek, but it was an uncomfortable one as well, as though she was not used to being burned by any fire at any point in her life. She shifted self-consciously in her seat, their gazes locked, before her eyes fell back to her paper and her hand shifted in preparation to write again. Only, she didn't know what to write anymore. Her hand hesitated before plunging back in, and that was the only hesitation he needed.

…

"I thought these train rides are supposed to be the first hell of a soldier's life." A voice said in a lazy New Orleans drawl. And somehow, _somehow_, she knew that voice belonged to him, that man with the dark curly hair, with the amused eyes, with the air of brazen mischief.

"They are," she replied, glancing up at him. There were those direct eyes again, staring at her through a haze of amusement and mischief, a spark dancing there somewhere behind the slight curve of his lips that leaned towards a half-smile.

"Then why are you here?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"If these things are supposed to be hell, then why are you here?"

She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a few moments before comprehension finally dawned in her light hazel eyes.

He was getting fresh. Too fresh. As though he were making fun of her by flirting with her. And normally, when such circumstances arose, she would simply turn her shoulder and ignore the impudent young man who had dared to speak to her in such a way. But there was something about him. Something she could not put her finger on. Something that made her mouth open and her voice retort with words that she did not know she had ever possessed.

"Beats me," she replied, "but we both know why you're here."

If she was an angel, he was the devil.

His eyes lit up and his mouth drew into a grin, the first noticeably authentic thing to cross his face since she had laid eyes on him. He was delighted by her response. Why, she was not sure. But the fact that the smile he was aiming at her, that small grin with his astonishingly perfect white teeth framed by his astonishingly perfect mouth, was caused by her – that one small fact gave her a pleasant churning sensation in the pit of her stomach that she could not help but not ignore.

"I'm assuming you have a name." She said, as he did not seem to be about to speak.

"If you have one."

"I happen to have one, yes."

There was a moment of silence as they waited for the other to speak again. Finally, she sighed and began to speak. His gaze fixated on her red lips and seemingly lost himself, as though he had slipped into a black hole and forgotten to slip back out.

"-since you're obviously not about to say anything. My name is Ginny."

Another smile came to his mouth, but that sarcastic mischief was back in his gaze as well.

"You mean, like gin? The alcohol?"

"Yes, I suppose so." She looked at him with expectant eyes, waiting and waiting for him to reply with his own name, as she had told him hers. But he stayed silent, simply staring at her shamelessly. "Well?" She said finally, breaking that silence that he had damned them with.

"Well, what?"

"Aren't you going to tell me your name?"

"Only if you let me sit down."

She looked to the seat beside her where her things were resting. Those things could easily be moved to the floor to make room for him, but she was not entirely sure if she wanted him sitting beside her, talking to her.

An attendant was behind him in the aisle, saying 'pardon me' in a polite, attendant-like tone, but his eyes remained fastened to her in her seat, waiting for her to make a decision, as though this were a decision that would change the course of his entire life.

"You have far too many conditions," she finally huffed, her hand grabbing her things and moving them to the floor. Yet another smile came out from hiding in the backstage of his face, coming to the forefront and taking the limelight just as he took the seat, settling in immediately as though he had been born in that seat and lived an entire lifetime sitting in that seat, as though he were meant to be in that seat the entire time.

"My name's Toby." He told her abruptly, glancing over at her as she watched him, catching the sickness of unabashedness that he displayed so brazenly.

She found herself laughing derisively, with a laugh she had never heard before in her laugh - a light, happy sound, with sarcasm hidden in the depth, as though she were actually enjoying herself.

"Like hell it is," she retorted, once more losing her words before she could catch them and hold onto them and never let them go.

"What, you don't believe me?"

"I find it hard to believe that you would put me through all that trouble to find out your name only to just blurt it out as soon as you sat down."

"You might be right, doll." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. "I always say that the very best things in life remind you of alcohol – doesn't matter what alcohol, just as long as you can get yourself drunk."

She found herself wondering if he was referring to her alcohol-reminiscent name, but by the time she gathered up enough nerve to ask him, he had drifted off to sleep in the seat beside her.


	2. A Snafu of Problems

**A/N:** Don't think anyone has ever used the invention of his nickname in a story thus far. I couldn't resist. xD how's life? Thanks to everyone for their lovely reviews; I had no anticipation of such a warm welcome into this fandom. I'm pretty psyched. Shout-out to **EllieMayy, HeadbangGirl, CP2girls, LovingBOBThePacific, caught-offsides, Shamrockanna,** and **DarylDixon'girl1985** for just plain awesomeness :)

Oh. And I don't own Snafu. Or Merriell. Or The Pacific. Or anything like that. I'll let you guys know if I ever get rich or awesome enough to have a hand in such an awesome pie, figuratively speaking.

Anywho. Hope you enjoy :)

**Chapter Two – A Snafu of Problems**

She did not see him after that for such a long time. Not when she settled into her austere surroundings, not at mealtimes, not in any of the faces that ended up sitting in the chair across from her desk.

But she didn't forget.

After all, after seeing such a face, such a smile, how could a girl simply _forget_? Every face tried to be like his and fell far short. Every voice tried to become his and fell even shorter. But one day, she looked up to find his eyes staring at her from where she was sitting behind her desk.

"Miz Ginny," he said, a grin creasing his cheeks smoothly before he remembered himself and reined that glorious smile back into an amused smirk, one of the ones that always seemed to be at her cost.

"Toby," she replied, her eyes twinkling with sarcasm as though she were silently allowing him to find amusement in her as she returned his smile, forgetting to check her own into something less sincere. "Are you here for a session?"

"Well, now," he started, his eyes twinkling as he drawled out his words carelessly. "That depends... Would you let me stay longer if I was here for a session or if I had simply missed your smile?"

"A session," she replied immediately.

"Well, then." He said, lowering himself into the absurdly comfortable red leather chair that sat in front of her desk. He scanned her face as she scanned the file that lay on her desk that a few higher-ups had given her along with a few dozen others. He examined her face as she examined his photograph. He perused her features as she perused the information that was all anyone really knew about him. "I heard that there was a female shrink somewhere around but I never thought it would be you."

But then again, he had been wrong a few times before.

"Yes, well." She replied, looking up at him and flashing a bright smile unstained by the tint caused by damaging coffee grounds. "I have a habit of surprising people."

The silence stretched on as she continued re-reading the information that lay before her. Her mouth drew into a soft line. He twitched. At last, her head raised from her perusal of the tan manilla folder and she looked him in the eye. But she said nothing.

"So, what now, you gonna ask me about my past and ask how I feel about this and that and shit?"

He was preparing to shut down, already pushing up barriers that had never come down before, already ready to defend himself, to astonish an innocent young woman with how broken he was.

But that same young woman continued to say nothing and he found himself twitching again.

Silence.

"No," she said at long last. "No, I'm going to ask you how you've been and what's been going on."

He blinked.

He looked at her.

Her face was solemn, the twinkle in her eye long since vanished. She was serious.

"Now?"

"Whenever."

"No - I mean, now? What's happening now?"

"I know what you meant. Talk about whenever or whatever you feel like talking about."

He was staring at her now, waiting for her to fill her hands with a pen and a notepad. He waited for her to say that she was joking and she wanted to hear about his past. _Everyone_ always wanted to know about his past.

She had to be joking.

He would not be proven a fool. He would try her; try to break her down, try to make her expose her real agenda, try to make her ask. Because everyone, everyone asked about his past.

"The Sunday lunch is damn awful." He began, examining her face for signs of incredulity or irritation. "The soup, when we have it, is gruel. The mashed potatoes are lumpy. I mean, fuck. Once, they make spaghetti and I swear it was a fucking pile of dead worms." Seeing no change in the expression of her face, he decided to continue. "And don't even get me started on breakfast-"

He talked and talked until he was out of breath, and then he would draw another breath and keep going. He complained about every single mundane thing that he could think of and then he moved on to the ludicrously boring. He even made up random diseases, told her that all the men in his barracks had some form of each one, and described the various symptoms that such diseases had.

He realized somewhere near the end, when his mind was blank and his mouth was running low of words, that he was enjoying himself; that he liked the way her rapt eyes examined the contours of his face as he told his half-true-or-less stories, the way her chin rested on her hand as she listened intently.

He liked the fact that she was thinking of nothing else except what he was telling her. That he had her attention so completely.

He felt powerful.

But when his words finally trickled to a halt and her mouth upturned, he realized that perhaps she was not as predictable as her outward appearance would have an onlooker think.

"Well," she drawled, "you just have a snafu of problems, don't you."

What the hell.

He had expected her to have stopped listening by this time. And besides.

"What the fuck is a snafu?"

She smirked then, her bright red lips turning up at the edges, her eyes beginning to sparkle.

"Why don't you look it up in a dictionary?"

"I prefer it when people fucking tell me things."

"Looks like you're out of luck, then." She checked her handy wristwatch quickly, then closed his folder and slid it in a drawer of her desk that was too low for him to see. "Your session's up. Come back week after next for your next one."

He was too concerned with the meaning of 'snafu' to bother even trying to persuade her to give him more time and not kick him out of her improvised office. So, with too many muttered complaints about 'snafu', he left, banging the door shut behind him before he thought about shutting it.

_What the hell,_ he decided. _She doesn't care anyway._

She glared at the slammed door, her fingers steepled together. Slamming the door absently. Complaining about trivial, minute things just to annoy someone. Flirting with a stranger on a train and not following through. She already had him figured out and he was only beginning.

Or, at least, she thought she did.


	3. In A Bar

**A/N; **Yes, I quite realize there's probably no one still reading this story or following it, and that's fine. That's my fault, as I haven't updated in half a year. If you want to, you can refresh yourself by reading the previous chapters. But I didn't want to leave this story unfinished because, hey, Snafu deserves better. Or Rami Malek does. I'm not sure which. But, anyways, I'll be updating more frequently than once a year, trust me.

Also. The chapters are based on their encounters, not on developing their characters away from each other. I know that's not usually the way I do things, but that's how I've decided to do it in this story because I just wanted to focus on their interactions with each other and how _that_ in itself changes them. So, anywho. Hope you enjoy.

**Three - In A Bar**

"Well, if it ain't Miz Ginny," he drawled from behind her and she swiveled on her barstool to face him.

"Well, if it isn't me," she agreed, with a smile as his greeting. "Hello, Snafu. What's been wrong with the lunch menu since I saw you last?"

"Oh, _everything_. The cook even messed up the spaghetti sauce. It gave me such a fright, I might need me 'nother 'ppointment."

She had to laugh at the mock horror he displayed so thoroughly.

"Well. I do hate to disappoint. And I _do_ love listening to a list of lunch and dinner menus."

"Who don't?"

It was the weekend after his psychiatric evaluation. He had gotten a weekend pass and she, as she was a rather model employee psychiatrist of the government of the United States of America, always got one anyway. How they had managed to show up at the same bar was beyond her.

"I su'pose I could buy ya a drank," he said slowly, studying her with something that made her feel as though she were being mocked. "Let me guess. A margarita with a lime on the side?"

"Wrong. Gin tonic."

"Well, ooh la la." He drawled, smiling. "Ain't you just _full_ of surprises, Miz _Ginny_."

He'd already been drinking, that much was obvious. His eyes were a little unfocused and, when they did occasionally refocus, they aimed somewhere near her lower face with an expression quite like focused curiosity.

"Well, I do try-"

She was cut off rather abruptly when he leaned forward _almost_ unsteadily and pressed his lips to hers.

And she froze.

He was warm. Indelibly warm. And his lips were softer than she'd expected. Not that she'd expected anything, of course. But his lips. But perhaps it wasn't his lips. Perhaps it was his kiss that was soft. But it hardly mattered, because it was warm and soft and it tasted of alcohol and that was almost okay with her. Almost.

Of course, then she remembered that he wasn't to be missing her at all - that they were in public and that they'd only met each other twice before in their lives and they really knew nothing of each other. She knew his file and his lunch menu and her evaluation of his psyche and that was it.

And then she remembered that it _wasn't_ okay that she _was_ okay with this. In the slightest. It wasn't okay.

She pulled away, only to catch him staring at her with a wide, stupid grin plastered across his face.

"What'd you do that for?" She demanded, her hand itching to slap him. Because if he was going to say that he knew he was irresistible or some such nonsense, she _would_ slap him. Without hesitation.

"I was wondering if you would be as surprising a kisser as you are surprising a person," he was speaking more slowly, his eyes still a bit glazed. "I bet you'd be blimey awful."

"And? How'd I do?" She couldn't help herself. It had to be asked. She was curious. She wanted to know if she affected him the way that he had affected her.

He grinned.

"Blimey awful."

She didn't slap him. Not quite. She was a bit too mortified.

He had that effect on her.

"Well," she huffed, "I tend to be a better kisser when I realize I'm being _kissed_ and not molested without my permission."

"Well then," he said with amusement but without hesitation. "Have a go." He gestured to his face. "Come on then. Show me what ya've got."

She then abruptly tried to tell herself that this was bloody _stupid_ and pointless and she didn't need the approval of one private first-class.

She told him so too.

He laughed.

"Look at the little princess all riled up with her dress in a puff."

_What_?

"You make no sense."

"Ya need to enjoy life more," he shot back.

"You should probably try enjoying it _less_."

"Ya might have a point there." He signaled for a gin tonic, using Ginny's glass as a demonstration. The buffoon. The bartender brought him one and he knocked it back, swallowing thickly. Ginny was glaring off somewhere and he tried not to laugh at the way she stiffened at the touch of his hand when he laid his hand on the skin of her upper arm, just under the cup of her short sleeve.

"Come on," he murmured in her ear, somehow managing to sound less drunk than he had _before_ he'd drank the gin. "Play darts with me."

She snorted.

"As if I'd play darts with _you_-"

"Come on..." He took her hand and pulled her from the stool, hardly paying heed to the complaints she listed in his ear. He was uncivilized, boorish, drunk-

"Don't tell me ya didn't enjoy it," he retorted, turning and giving her a suggestive wiggle of his dark eyebrows. She scowled.

"I'm sure I could find something to shave those eyebrows off with unless you stop waggling them, Private."

"Yes, ma'am, Colonel, sir."

And so they played darts. She beat him easily. Then one of his comrades (who had apparently accompanied him, not that she'd noticed anyone else around until they'd spoken to her) decided he wanted to play against her and, when she'd beaten him as well, they all chimed in.

Merriell Shelton was left watching and waiting; something he was not accustomed to, to say the least.

And he'd never been the most patient of men.

Finally, when he decided very abruptly that she'd played far too many games and had far too much to drink, he quite suddenly halted the progression of a game (which she was winning effortlessly) and dragged her out the door, hardly listening to her complaints.

"Let go of me, you brute!"

He let go. She stopped walking. He turned to face her.

"Why must you keep touching me?! You have no right to touch me so much and so constantly! _Stop_ talking liberties with me and _stop_ speaking for me! I am not your submissive little _wife_!"

What else had he expected from a woman named after an alcohol?

"Can I walk ya home?"

"_What_?"

"Can I walk ya home?"

She stared at him as though he had gone daft. And perhaps he had. Or perhaps he'd never been anything _but_ daft to begin with.

"Yes. Fine. Whatever."

He offered her his arm and she took it, though she suspected it was more of a farce than anything else. They walked quietly, but slowly. Very slowly. And all she could think about was how she really _shouldn't_ even be able to _stand_ him but how she was still allowing him to walk her home.

When they reached her quarters and he said goodnight with a smirk, she thought of kissing him and how it had felt. And she wondered if it would feel any different under the starlight and lamplight, when the air was warm and his breath was warmer and tasted still of alcohol-

But, as she knew that she really wouldn't be able to even look at him right then if he were anyone else, she simply said goodnight and walked inside, not lingering by the door or by his side, even though he stood there for a long moment after she'd disappeared and he still smirked.

The insufferable man.

She really _couldn't_ stand him anymore.

But if he decided to kiss her again, she wouldn't complain.


End file.
